Probably my favourite book is one that I return to again and again, and each time I discover something new. It is truly a remarkable piece of literature. The story is both evocative and funny, captivating the reader from the very beginning. One of the aspects that makes this book so special is the narrator, Prentice. He is one of the best narrators in literature, with a unique voice and perspective that adds depth and charm to the story. Through Prentice's eyes, we are able to experience the events and characters in a whole new way. The author has done an excellent job of creating a vivid and engaging world that draws the reader in and keeps them hooked until the very end. I highly recommend this book to anyone who loves a good story and wants to be entertained and enlightened at the same time.

The story is predominantly recounted by Prentice McHoan. He has journeyed back to Scotland and is joyously reunited with his family, which is an assemblage of very diverse and intricate individuals. Prentice is constantly regaling others with tales of the family's past, present, and even speculations about the future. However, his mind seems to be perpetually preoccupied with several key themes. These include mainly death, which looms large in his thoughts, sex, which adds a touch of scandal and excitement, drink, which often leads to humorous and sometimes chaotic situations, God, as he grapples with his beliefs and the meaning of life, and illegal substances, which introduce an element of danger and mystery.

This book is truly an entertaining read, filled to the brim with humorous stories that will have you laughing out loud. The author has a remarkable ability to bring the characters and their antics to life, making it impossible to put the book down.

I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Net Galley and Little, Brown Book Group UK for providing me with a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review. Their generosity has allowed me to discover this wonderful literary gem and share my thoughts with others.

This was an extremely rare instance of reading a novel almost solely due to its renowned first line: “It was the day my grandmother exploded.”

I was well-acquainted with this quote from the Bookshop Band song “Once Upon a Time” (video available on the bottom right here), which consists of first lines from various books. However, I had never delved into anything written by the late Iain Banks. So, when a copy of The Crow Road surfaced in the free bookshop where I volunteered weekly during more joyous times, I eagerly snatched it up.

There is a rather prosaic explanation for that enchanting-sounding opening: Grandma Margot had a pacemaker that the doctor neglected to remove before her cremation. Talk about going out with a literal bang! The phrase “away the crow road” is a Scottish expression for death, and on numerous occasions, a sudden or unexplained death brings the McHoan clan together. As the book commences, Prentice McHoan, a rather slothful history student at the university in Glasgow, returns to Gallanach (on the west coast of Scotland, near Oban), the site of the family glassworks, for Margot’s funeral. He will be summoned several more times before the story reaches its conclusion.

Amidst clashes over religion with his father Kenneth, a writer of children’s fantasy stories, plenty of rowdy carousing and whiskey-drinking, and a touch of heartbreak when his brother steals his love interest, Prentice becomes embroiled in the mystery of what happened to Uncle Rory, a travel writer who vanished years ago. The majority of the book is narrated by Prentice, but shifts into the third person to indicate flashbacks. Many of these vignettes recount humorous mishaps from Kenneth or Prentice’s formative years, but others – especially those in italics – reveal darker matters. As Prentice delves into Uncle Rory’s files from a project called “Crow Road,” he stumbles upon a secret that completely alters his perception of his family history.

This novel reminded me of John Irving at his peak during the 1970s - 1980s: a sprawling coming-of-age tale, filled with quirky individuals and events, that seamlessly blends humor and pathos. To be completely honest, I didn't necessarily require the mystery element on top of the character study, but it does add a sense of direction to what would otherwise be a pleasant, albeit lengthy, meander through the decades with the McHoans. I particularly appreciated how Prentice’s view of death evolves: initially, he sides with Uncle Hamish, believing there must be something beyond death – otherwise, what gives human life meaning? But Kenneth’s atheism gradually seeps in due to the一连串 of family deaths and the onset of the Gulf War. “They were here, and then they weren’t, and that was all there was,” Prentice concludes; the dead live on only in memory, or in the children and work they leave behind. I simply can't resist quoting this entire paragraph, which is my favorite passage from the novel:

Telling us straight or through his stories, my father taught us that there was, generally, a fire at the core of things, and that change was the only constant, and that we – like everybody else – were both the most important people in the universe, and utterly without significance, depending, and that individuals mattered before their institutions, and that people were people, much the same everywhere, and when they appeared to do things that were stupid or evil, often you hadn’t been told the whole story, but that sometimes people did behave badly, usually because some idea had taken hold of them and given them an excuse to regard other people as expendable (or bad), and that was part of who we were too, as a species, and it wasn’t always possible to know that you were right and they were wrong, but the important thing was to keep trying to find out, and always to face the truth. Because truth mattered.

That strikes me as a solid philosophy. I'll definitely explore more of Banks' works. I also managed to obtain a free copy of The Wasp Factory, which I gather has a very different tone. Any recommendations after that? Could I even handle his science fiction (published under the name Iain M. Banks)?

Originally published on my blog, Bookish Beck.

The long and winding road.

This is the captivating story of the upper middle-class McHoan family. At its heart is Prentice, and we follow his journey of coming of age and the crucial relationships that shape his life. There's his father Kenneth, a natural storyteller who has a certain charm. His older brother Lewis, a moderately successful stand-up comic, adds another layer to the family dynamic. Prentice's love for the beautiful gamine Verity is a central thread, as is his friendship with the sassy and self-sufficient Ashley. The oddness surrounding the family's castle-dwelling neighbour Fergus Urvill and the strange disappearance of peripatetic Uncle Rory add an element of mystery.

The setting of Gallanach in mid-Argyll is an integral part of the novel, as is the era - the cusp of the technological age in the late 1980s and early 90s. Prepare yourself for a challenging read. The narrative is fractured, which can be frustrating at times, but as the characters begin to emerge, it eases up. There's also a fair amount of dialect from "the lower orders", but it's entertaining rather than difficult to understand.

Crow Road refers not only to the address of one of the characters but also to Prentice's grandmother's expression "Ach, he's away the Crow Road" meaning dead. Banks's story delves into themes of loss, death, and family alienation. But it's not all doom and gloom; it's also about love. And it's very funny. A great deal of drink is consumed throughout the story. However, the author takes an overly long time to resolve Prentice's romantic life and the mystery surrounding Uncle Rory's disappearance.

My thanks to Abacus for the ARC courtesy of NetGalley.

What could have been a rather ordinary murder mystery in the hands of many other authors has been transformed into something that is wry, dark, humorous, and highly engaging.

Such was the talent and remarkable imagination of Iain Banks. He had the knack of infusing all his work with a rich depth of character. It wasn't just in how he crafted the characters themselves but also in their surroundings.

As is common in much of his work, Scotland, and particularly its dark and brooding Highlands, is a character in itself. It was especially fitting that I read some of this book while on my own adventures around Scotland recently.

The narrator is the main protagonist Prentice. However, the narrative frequently switches from the first to the third person as historic incidents and events from other characters' perspectives are explored. This not only adds to the mystery and general intrigue but also makes for a truly captivating read.

Overall, Iain Banks' work is a testament to his unique storytelling abilities and his ability to create a world that draws the reader in and keeps them engaged from beginning to end.

I decided to pen this minimalist review as a form of protest. You see, there's this person, notgettingenough, whose screeds are just intolerably wordy. It's truly exasperating. For instance, take a look at her recent review of Jeremy Clarkson. But actually, don't! I repeat, don't! It's just that bad.

_________________________________________

(Gratuitous cross-promotion)

It's high time someone spoke up about the overabundance of verbose reviews. I hope this minimalist approach makes a statement and encourages others to be more concise and to the point in their reviews.

I've read all of Iain (M.) Banks' Science Fiction novels, and many of them I regarded as excellent. However, his non-SF works didn't quite have the same impact on me. This particular book seems to be one of his most popular non-SF offerings. I've heard it suggested several times that it has one of the best first lines in literature: "It was the day my Grandmother exploded."

I thought it was a good book. Indeed, it takes a fair amount of time for the plot's direction to become clear. But even the early stages, which feel more like a series of vignettes about the various members of the McHoan family, are entertaining. Prentice, the narrator, is engaging. Although it can be frustrating as he makes a sequence of extremely poor decisions, he does develop as a character as the story progresses. I also liked the flashbacks to the previous generation, especially those following Prentice's father in his younger days. I think some of the best writing in the book comes from Kenneth McHoan's storytelling to the children.

While the book's main theme is death and how people cope with it, it didn't strike me as a particularly gloomy read. There is plenty of humour in it (even if some of it is a bit morbid). And although the ending may be bittersweet, it at least has some hopeful elements.

I also really liked the book's portrayal of its setting. Having grown up in the Scottish Highlands, I've seen a lot of fiction supposedly set in Scotland that just didn't feel true. But this one felt very authentic to me (not that I was expecting anything different from Banks). Although the town of Gallanach itself, where much of the book takes place, is fictional, I recognize a lot of places and things from the rest of the book. It's also a good portrayal of its time. The 'present day' in the book is now 30 years ago, and some parts feel familiar (the political landscape in some ways hasn't changed that much), while others feel quite different (such as a University student like Prentice finding computers exotic and not knowing what an e-mail is).

Reviews are deeply personal, and this one is no exception. It truly challenges my objectivity to a new height. Consider this: I first read the book at the age of 20, when it was initially published, and now, 25 years later, I've revisited it. You'd agree that this alone is sufficient to stir up a wealth of emotions and nostalgia, to the extent that the novel itself almost takes a backseat. It's like listening to a cheesy old pop song; we remember what we were doing when it was playing, rather than objectively assessing the quality of the music. Growing up in the West of Scotland and being contemporary with the novel's main character has reignited memories of my life in the mid-90s.

Putting aside the familiarity of its content, neutral readers might initially be intrigued by the romantic settings of the West of Scotland, vividly described in all their glory. However, they might also be left somewhat perplexed by the storyline. Banks skillfully exploits the context he chose - the hills, lochs, glens, sea, and all the spectacular colors and sceneries of that part of the world. His descriptions are a masterful example of how fiction should be crafted. He 'paints' pictures with words of admirable accuracy through a succession of fairly complex sentences that flow seamlessly. Undoubtedly, the language of the whole book deserves full marks, written with enviable skills and abundant talent.

'The Crow Road' has one undeniable issue that emerged in both of my readings: the characters. The McHoan family, not atypical of a middle-class rural Scottish family in the 90s, is not as strong as its context. They are affected by several deaths (in fact, the book starts with a funeral), through which Prentice, a 22-year-old McHoan, searches for the meaning of life. All this seems quite legitimate and almost predictable. However, in a way, I would have preferred the book if it had limited itself to a 'quest for answers from above' rather than introducing a subplot in a 'Who Done It' style halfway through. On both occasions, I felt rather miffed about this. The concept of 'less is more' still seems quite foreign to many editors. After all, why publish 300 pages when you can put out over 500? Quantity, in a world of'supersize me', still appears to be an important marketing tool. The novel could have been an exquisite story about a young man's quest for God, and that, in my opinion, is what Banks had in mind (the ending seems to confirm this). So, the whole'murder mystery' addition feels out of place. If it hadn't been for its brilliant language, I might have given up. It's not the length of the story that I have a problem with, but the obvious attempt to dilute what could have been a truly outstanding novel if it had focused solely on its main objective: believing or not believing in God.

On that note, the arguments from Prentice's father are powerful and convincing. “Telling us straight or through his stories, my father taught us that there was, generally, a fire at the core of things, and that change was the only constant, and that we - like everybody else - were both the most important people in the universe, and utterly without significance, depending, and that individuals mattered before their institutions, and that people were people, much the same everywhere, and when they appeared to do things that were stupid or evil, often you hadn't been told the whole story, but that sometimes people did behave badly, usually because some idea had taken hold of them and given them an excuse to regard other people as expendable (or bad), and that was part of who we were too, as a species, and it wasn't always possible to know that you were right and they were wrong, but the important thing was to keep trying to find out, and always to face the truth. Because truth mattered.”

The struggle to find oneself is not limited to the search for the divine but also through self-analysis. Banks powerfully depicts the thoughts of a young man growing up. “I liked the idea of other people feeling sorry for me, even though I also despised them for it because I wasn't worth their sympathy and that made them. Of course, I despised myself for despising them for showing such genuine and unselfish emotions, but that's just one of the things you have to get used to when you're in a serious self-destruction spiral. Mine was feeling rather like a power-dive right now.”

Selfishly, I truly wish there was more of that and less of the'short-bread tin' picture of castles and modern gentry. Prentice had the potential to truly reflect a young Scot in the 90s, not just in terms of lifestyle (which was portrayed rather accurately) but also through his inner journey. Instead, some of the good elements of his'stream of consciousness' were overshadowed by his investigative role within the plot. That dual function was out of place. In parts, I felt like I was reading a script of 'Tin Tin- cum-Monarch of Glen'. Glasgow as a setting was only used sporadically and never in its cultural context. I dare say it would not have been as marketable to a non-British audience, who tend to prefer the fictional, formulaic, leafier context of Scotland, but it would have added some much-needed grit to the story. I would have appreciated it if Prentice had sought his soul in the mean streets of Glasgow rather than in the cosy hills of Gallanach. I have the feeling that Iain Banks might well have thought of that originally before being influenced by the usual shrewd editor. Why else would he have used 'Crow Road', a well-known thoroughfare in the West-End of Glasgow, as the title of his book if he only planned to refer to it once in the story? Of course, I'm speculating, but the point is: there are two very distinct aspects of this book - Banks' immense talent for description and a rather poor choice of characters.

Still, the book reminded me, albeit from a slightly different angle, of the uniqueness of being in Scotland in the 90s, with all its casual sex, recreational drugs, and blissful naivety. So much so that one could afford to spend their time thinking about futile matters, like God.

The gap between the settings and the plot is too significant and it devalues the excellent potential of the book.

Four stars - an average between six for taking me down memory lane with style, and two for creating too many and pointless characters.

Suddenly, tears spring from your eyes, and you are too surprised by them to be able to stop the small flood that follows.

You are in your favorite coffee shop nearby, waiting for a vegetable tagine.

* * * *

Prentice, you fool, how can you not see the obvious right in front of your nose? As you wait for your tagine, you wonder what those who like to divide writing by quality, where literature is 'best', call Banks. Not literature? Presumably not trash either. What then? Good fiction, perhaps? As opposed to the bad stuff that is popularly read? Banks does like the reader to know what's going on from the very beginning. So, from the first moment you meet Ashley, you know she is the one. If only there was a way to tell Prentice Prat that. To make sure you know what's going on, Verity, the one he thinks is the one, has no character at all.

Though maybe, on second thought, maybe Banks just can't write women well. Don't get me wrong, you adore Ashley. Who wouldn't want to be her? But she is a character written for boys, isn't she? Utterly loyal to her idea of you, no matter what kind of idiot you are or how blind you are. Forgiving of every shitty thing you do to her. Writing this down makes you realize that if it were a Mills and Boon, certain people would call it revoltingly sexist. But it's ummmm. A step up of sorts, you think. And boys read Banks and – well, it's different, isn't it? Nope. You don't see it yourself. And you think back to Complicity, in which, in a different way, the girl is what a man would want too.

* * * *

The little girl had nightmares about cabbage. Even worse, she lay awake, the very thought of cabbage scaring sleep away.

* * * *

An author who can't resist being clever, even when he shouldn't. (Aside: isn't there a decent editor left in England?) The first two hundred pages jar with you. They are about how witty the author is. It's a pity because the second half of the book is well worth it.

This is the sort of thing you mean, on page 54.

\\n
‘And how are your studies going?’
‘Oh, just fine.’
‘Good, good.’
‘And the twins; are they both well?’
‘Fine, fine’ Fergus nodded, presumably allocating his two daughters a word each in his reply.’
\\n

Too smart for his own good. Yes, witty, all things being equal, the thing about a word for each daughter. But all things are not equal, are they? Hello, Banks. There are readers here and we aren't complete idiots. Fergus, as you have just discovered and is reinforced throughout the book, typically repeats everything in this way. A clever line that shouldn't be there. Only an author who is too much in love with himself would feel the need to keep that there. Only an editor who was sleeping with him would let him get away with it. Or so you imagine.

* * * *

You're picking these white pieces of ?? out of your tagine. Potato skin, you wonder, as a pile grows next to your bowl. But you try biting into one and it's thicker and – well, nastier – than potato skin. You pick up the candle and examine these things by its light – they've got veins – they're – oh. That's what they are.

* * * *

And the little girl – whose mother, quite possibly the provider of the worst cooked vegetables in the galaxy, had always refused to cook cabbage because it was an abomination – could scarcely begin to imagine how dreadful it must be. And you think back to being that little girl and every cabbage fear she had was justified by this moment. Cabbage sucks.

* * * *

It takes Prentice Prat forever, and every brain cell the Lord bestowed upon him, to very, very dimly begin to understand about Ashley. But eventually. Eventually.

* * * *

And this book is all sorts of things lacking in subtlety. It is a murder mystery where you know it is a murder and who did it even as it is being done. And it is a love story you know is going to end happily if you wait long enough. And it is chock full of slightly zany characters who live slightly zany lives for you to be mostly amused by, and occasionally moved by.

Splendid scenes where Kenneth describes the actual making of the earth in Scotland longer than a prehistory ago, the movements of vast pieces of the world. It makes you think of sex.

Unchallenging, escapist entertainment. 'Eternally pleasant' was your friend Harry's summation. So, not literature then. But what? You're asking the people who like to divide things up this way.

* * * *

And as your tears fall, in light too dim to see cabbage or tears, you think what a fool you are. Because towards the very end of the book, as you innocently sit here, drinking your tea, you arrive at a scene which could be you, you and your loved one, and there is that moment, where like young children before they are trained to separate their emotions from each other, you hover in that childlike way between tears and smiles, weeping and laughing.

And what makes you a fool is that this is just a good writer telling a story and the whole point of what he does is that he is like an astrologer or a fortune cookie. Get everybody in. Make each person think you are writing for them. To them.

* * * *

And if you have in the least succeeded in writing this in the modern literary style adopted by Banks, you will think, dear reader, that you write to you.

xxxx

There are indeed numerous ways to pen a merely good novel. However, I have perused only a handful of truly great ones. Those remarkable novels with captivating plots often make their emotional impact by relentlessly pounding their main characters until their lives seem to have hit rock bottom, and then somehow managing to find that last shred left to shatter.

The Crow Road accomplishes this with great mastery. Halfway through the book, the main character Prentice has endured a series of misfortunes. His romantic pursuits have been thwarted by those closest to him. He has painfully embarrassed himself in front of his entire family. His stubbornness has trapped him in a bitter falling out with his father. He has just lost the last writings of his long-missing uncle Rory. He is broke and failing in school. All of these are his own doing and entirely his fault, and the reader can't help but wince as he begins to realize this. Then, he is dealt an even deeper blow, and eventually sets out to uncover the truth about what happened to his uncle.

Here, what was initially the story of three intertwined families evolves into more of a mystery novel. At the same time, it is a touching story about family bonds, a great coming-of-age narrative, and a not-insignificant romantic subplot. All of these elements are brilliantly interwoven to create a wonderful, suspenseful tale with an interesting Scottish flavor. This is the first Iain Banks novel I have read, and I will most definitely keep an eye out for more of his works.

I always used to scoff at the idea that a reader could find a book they love because it "speaks to them." I thought it was just a cliché, something people said to sound deep. But now, having just finished The Crow Road, I understand what they mean.

As I turned the pages of this wonderful novel, I was delighted and surprised to find that I not only understood the main character, Prentice, but also felt like his life mirrored my own in many ways. From the superficial details like being from a lower middle-class family, having wealthy relatives, and studying History at university in Glasgow, to the more profound similarities like the angst over unrequited love and the tendency to be a pretentious arse.

I became so embroiled in the story that I found myself laughing out loud at the dry, Scots humour and caring deeply for Prentice's misguided love for Verity. I was also gasping at the sinister revelations towards the end of the book. It was impossible to put down.

While I might have a few criticisms, like the plot only really picking up in the last quarter, these are insignificant compared to the overall joy of reading this book. It's a brilliant portrayal of growing up and the confusion and aimlessness that can come with it.

I loved this book and would highly recommend it to anyone looking for a funny, haunting, and profound read. It's a 10/10 for me, and I know I'll be returning to Gallanach again and again.

DNF Like Lewis Hamilton in Qatar GP2023

Sarah and Dave both gave this book glowing reviews, stating it gets really good around the halfway point. However, I had a different experience. I stopped reading when Prentice finally began investigating Rory's missing status, which was indeed about halfway through the book. I spent weeks forcing myself to slog through Prentice's Verity simping and the constant, rather odd family dynamics where everyone seemed to be going at it like hogs. I was painfully waiting for the story to start, and I'd had enough! Maybe there's a world where I keep going and experience the best murder mystery ever, but I realized I no longer cared because the first half was so utterly pointless. I refused to fall for the sunk cost fallacy again. I just think a book with a bad first half is simply bad. I even read the last chapter to see the ending, and what I found was hilarious yet concerning. Prentice was sending Morse code to Ashley by pulsing his dick in her, which meant the book didn't stop being horny when the murder mystery part started, justifying my DNF.

Pros: The book is very Scottish, and I love when authors write dialogue phonetically. I had fun reading the characters' dialogue out loud, which was probably the only reason I kept reading beyond chapter 4. I also enjoyed googling new things like donkey jackets and lairds. And while I'm still confused about whatever Margaret Thatcher did, it was an interesting aspect. The author's writing style wasn't bad per se, but I had no idea what was happening, why, or who anyone was, and I just didn't care.

Cons: If I wanted to read about horny people, I'd go to Webtoon or AO3. The book started with a cool first sentence, "My gran exploded," but failed to deliver. I went in hoping for some casual fantasy magic, like maybe grandma's moles were magically keeping track of her children. But no, there was no magic, just a bunch of... well, you know. The story jumps around to different POVs and times so much that I had a hard time keeping track of who was related to who. Also, no offense to Prentice, but I couldn't relate to his falling out with his dad. Ken was right; there's no god.

TLDR: Reading this was like getting punched repeatedly in the stomach, hoping for a waffle at the end. But my stomach couldn't handle it, and the pain made me not want their waffles anymore. Now I'm making my own waffles by reading Witch Hat Atelier and Animorphs instead, because I live in a world full of delicious and accessible waffles that aren't behind a wall of punches.